he was at my door, dressed in forlorn;
a mountain of miseries crested his eyes,
folded the layers of skin into creases.

he hides them well, but i know too much.

already he's felt the pains of life's passing;
the yesterdays pile into what-ifs, maybes,
and coulda beens. all are shelved aside.

his hopes like the wash drying on the line.

he is almost thirty in his worries of woes,
and the teenager he carries in his heart
is tired, so very tired of all non-answers.

about ready to cross the river[of no return]
from childhood's no care world to the adult
cares, concerns of the each and everyday.

seems now it's his job to worry about tomorrow.

10/13/2008

Posted on 10/13/2008
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